


The Mercy Seat

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: South Park
Genre: Depression, Drabble, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4763540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And the mercy seat is waiting<br/>And I think my head is burning<br/>And in a way I'm yearning<br/>To be done with all this measuring of proof<br/>An eye for an eye<br/>And a tooth for a tooth<br/>And anyway I told the truth<br/>But I'm afraid I told a lie. </p><p>-</p><p>Stanny drabble. Takes place during the "You're Getting Old"/"Ass Burgers" mini-arc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mercy Seat

**Author's Note:**

> tbh i identify with these episodes a lot, so this is (partially) based on my experience with depression among other things. idk i just wanted to get it out.

He wouldn't watch for his friends or call for his mother. He wouldn't write a letter or beg for someone to stop him. He wouldn't do it at home, because someone might catch him, but he wouldn't do it out on the streets.

A rope hung from a dying tree branch as he positioned his bathroom stool. He had very well pretended to enjoy himself again today. When he played those stupid video games with his insipid, juvenile companions, infected with another bout of the wretched serum that plagued his being. As he returned to his senses, he wanted nothing more than to reach his final destination. Hell, brimstone, a thorny crown on his hurting head prodding into the flesh. That's all he wanted.

He gazed up at the clouded sky, eyes glazed over with boredom. The sky looked like shit.

The act of pretending was becoming tiring, but honesty would just set them apart. Or perhaps, they were set apart already. His fingers twitched as he tied the knots on the branch even tighter when he heard a shuffle and dove into the brush. His eyes scanned past the leaves and bushes, the silhouettes of his own friends passing the mist and blizzard. He'd recognize those figures anywhere.

"Hey, guys, check this out!"

Cartman's voice was fucking grating.

"Did someone try to commit suicide here?"

The branch with the rope on it was pulled, and then returned to its placement. Kyle would never guess whose rope it was. He'd never guess whose grave was being dug, until he was a day late.

"Duuuude, Kahl, why don't you hook yourself onto this thing?"

"Shut up, you fucking fatass!"

He heard a harsh smacking noise. What a bunch of children they were. They were all just talking shit. The branch bent down once more, as Cartman and Kyle bickered amongst themselves. 

"Kenny, what are you doing with that."

"I'unno." He spoke muffled through his orange jacket. "Hey, you dare me to stick my face in it?"

"No, man, you'll fuck up your neck."

"Shut up, Kahl," Cartman cut him off. "I'll give you ten bucks to do it."

"He can't use ten bucks when he's dead."

Were they using his fucking rope? Were they shitting around with his stuff? All the bullshit was giving him a headache, he just wanted to get this over with. But he couldn't show his face here. Why would he be all the way out here, near this noose, in a bad time where he was always bored and frustrated. They'd know. They'd fucking know, his friends weren't idiots. (Besides Cartman, anyway.)

"I'm gonna hang out here a bit." He tuned back into the conversation. Shit, Kenny was staying?

"Alright, whatever. We're gonna go buy some explosives."

The sound of snowboots flattening the white flakes slowly dissipated as his two friends left. His friends. His stupid, boring, _shitty_ friends. He should have socked Kenny so hard in the face that he ran off screaming. He should have spilled blood and teeth on the fresh snow so he could finally have peace.

The branch went up and down. Kenny seemed to be fucking around, really, he didn't have any reason to be around. Steps onto his cheap stool echoed into the nothingness, and he couldn't really see well. The vibrations through the pulling continued reverberating inside of the dead, empty tree. Kenny's shoe slid across the cleaned wood like the whispers of the dead. Those who had given up in this empty forest prior, in years before, on the same branch with a different noose.

There were quick, short motions in the hollow drum of the tree. He was adjusting something. With the rope, or the branch? Something clicked in Stan's mind, and he had no idea how he could be such a fucking moron. He didn't understand how or why or anything like that, but for a moment he was frozen in his place. Then he was diving out of his hiding spot and thoughtlessly socking his good friend in the nose, sending him tumbling back with blood jetting from his bruised nose.

"Stan, what the fuck...?"

"You can't." He couldn't make full sentences, hyperventilating and as nervous as ever. For once he found he could give a shit about something, and he felt a feeling besides apathy. It was fear.

"What are you doing here? Kyle was just here, y'could have called for him or some shit. What the fuck were you..."

And perhaps they both felt like idiots for taking so long to realize.

"You didn't--"

"I did." Stan cut him off, and then repeated. "...I did."

"Why?"

"Everything is just a bunch of dumb shit to me, so what's the point of..." He trailed off. "...You're lucky, you can still enjoy yourself. There's something fucking wrong with me, and everyone's having a good time doing a bunch of idiotic bullshit I used to like."

"...My reasons're complicated, but I ain't the lucky one. Don't be such a sore shit."

"Maybe you're being a sore shit."

"Maybe we both are."

The two remained silent for a few seconds.

"...Kenny, if you kill yourself, I'm gonna chase your gay ass down to hell and kick it."

"Well, same to you."

"Why does it matter? Don't you hear what Kyle says? I'm a bummer to be around."

"Don't mean I want ya dead, fuckwad."

"I would want me dead."

"Well nobody else does."

"How do I know?"

"Quit bein' a fuckin' dumbass!" Another pause. Perhaps neither of them were in the condition to have this conversation. Perhaps one day Stan could look back and be glad Kenny McCormick saved his life. Perhaps one day Kenny could look back and be glad Stan Marsh saved his life. Perhaps they'd both forget each other and do something actually important with their lives instead of reminiscing. 

They stared into one another's eyes without a word to say. Perhaps, his problem was that he just couldn't see past the present and into the future. His gaze said all that mattered as he stood up. He turned around and began to walk away. If he couldn't die, then he'd have to live. And in the back of his ear, he heard Kenny call "good-bye" to him. His friends were too good for his cynical ass.

Maybe he'd apologize tomorrow, though his apologies sounded like shit.


End file.
